On the dark unstirring trees innumerable flowers and buds all soft and blurred were being bewitched to life by the creeping moonlight.  He had the oddest feeling of actual companionship, as if a million white moths or spirits had floated in and settled between dark sky and darker ground, and were opening and shutting their wings on a level with his eyes.  In the bewildering, still, scentless beauty of that moment he almost lost memory of why he had come to the orchard.  The flying glamour which had clothed the earth all day had not gone now that night had fallen, but only changed into this new form.  He moved on through the thicket of stems and boughs covered with that live powdering whiteness, till he reached the big apple tree.  No mistaking that, even in the dark, nearly twice the height and size of any other, and leaning out towards the open meadows and the stream.  Under the thick branches he stood still again, to listen.  The same sounds exactly, and a faint grunting from the sleepy pigs.  He put his hands on the dry, almost warm tree trunk, whose rough mossy surface gave forth a peaty scent at his touch.  Would she come—­would she?  And among these quivering, haunted, moon-witched trees he was seized with doubts of everything!  All was unearthly here, fit for no earthly lovers; fit only for god and goddess, faun and nymph not for him and this little country girl.  Would it not be almost a relief if she did not come?  But all the time he was listening.  And still that unknown bird went “Pip-pip,” “Pip-pip,” and there rose the busy chatter of the little trout stream, whereon the moon was flinging glances through the bars of her tree-prison.  The blossom on a level with his eyes seemed to grow more living every moment, seemed with its mysterious white beauty more and more a part of his suspense.  He plucked a fragment and held it close—­three blossoms.  Sacrilege to pluck fruit-tree blossom—­soft, sacred, young blossom—­and throw it away!  Then suddenly he heard the gate close, the pigs stirring again and grunting; and leaning against the trunk, he pressed his hands to its mossy sides behind him, and held his breath.  She might have been a spirit threading the trees, for all the noise she made!  Then he saw her quite close—­her dark form part of a little tree, her white face part of its blossom; so still, and peering towards him.  He whispered:  “Megan!” and held out his hands.  She ran forward, straight to his breast.  When he felt her heart beating against him, Ashurst knew to the full the sensations of chivalry and passion.  Because she was not of his world, because she was so simple and young and headlong, adoring and defenceless, how could he be other than her protector, in the dark!  Because she was all simple Nature and beauty, as much a part of this spring night as was the living blossom, how should he not take all that she would give him how not fulfil the spring in her heart and his!  And torn between these two emotions he clasped